


my heart was born out of the fire

by yourealoverimarunner



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dark!Kira, Dark!Kira Yukimura, Gen, Teen Wolf AU, assassin!kira, kira!week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 02:52:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4770767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourealoverimarunner/pseuds/yourealoverimarunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Dark!Kira fics written to accompany <a href="http://8tracks.com/daviidsramseys/my-heart-was-born-out-of-the-fire">"My Heart Was Born Out Of The Fire"</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my heart was born out of the fire

“it was pretty simple  
the probe laid honey  
syrup dripped on a pigeon wing  
and stole my money  
  
why is difficult  
if you already know how i feel?  
either you are or you aren't stupid  
are you ready for me?  
  
keep this kid sedated”

//

She receives her first hit the morning of her 14th birthday.

She stumbles out of bed sleep warm, squinting into the buttery beams spilling in through her bay window, and treks down to breakfast. The kitchen is empty, her mother and father having already gone to open the shop next door, but a plate of hot, fluffy blueberry cinnamon waffles sits on the table in apology. From underneath the plate sticks one single white envelope. When she rips it open, taking a few moments to smile at the glittery face of the card and the silver calligraphy celebrating her day of birth, she’s not as surprised as she imagined she’d be when instead of crisp bills falling into her lap, she finds only a single Polaroid with a price and time scribbled messily on the white.

Two grand, today, 21:15.

His name is David Turner and he’s a bear of a man to say the least. He’s three times her height, with dark, beady eyes, and he’s as round and swollen as a blister. He seems to be covered in a thick growth of dark hair on every inch of his body, the fur most prominent on his red, meaty arms, which slide down into wrists like Christmas hams. An old gold Rolex is strapped tightly across his right wrist, and a matching gold ring is squeezed around his left pinkie, which is the size of a small bratwurst. She’s seen him often enough around her father’s deli to wonder how many people in a two-mile radius would be injured if he happened to let one of his signature wet, brown coughs rip from his chest and the ring popped off under duress. She’s always found it odd that he’s completely bald at the top of his sweat slicked head- not a follicle to be found including at his eyebrows, which creeps her out to no end- and she can’t help but silently gag whenever he happens to cross in front of her, for he always smells like three slabs of boiled beef. He’s human salami.

Mr. Turner is a frequent at Ken’s, does business with her parents behind closed doors. She doesn’t quite know what his actual occupation is, but she pays enough attention to know that he always leaves their shop with his pockets a little more full metaphorically (and probably literally) than when he first rolled in.

Her father owns the only deli in the neighborhood, and they do decent business, but she knows that they are strapped for cash for more often than they would like. “People just don’t do business anymore,” she’s heard her father sigh every now and again, which makes sense. There’s a new supermarket not too far from where they live with lower prices but lower quality, and as time goes on, she realizes that their neighborhood isn’t as friendly to Asian deli owners as she grew up thinking it was. She rarely forgets the winter her neighbor Mrs. Kanter’s Shiba Inu went missing for six days. She’d often catch the old woman’s eyes cut across the fence every morning when she was on her way to school, in accusation that her mother- a known opposer of the dog-  had something to do with its disappearance. Turns out Lucy had simply gotten loose and ended up at the local animal clinic, but it was too late: her family couldn’t stop the few vile, whispered rumors that floated around town about them. In spite of this (and probably because of), both of her parents teach her how to take over the real “business.” They’d given it up once Ken opened up shop, but times were changing, and she had learned that they were closer to losing the shop than her parents let on.

Noshiko teaches her knives: drives her out on a grey Autumn day to a farm twenty-five miles outside of town. It's a gorgeous patch of land sitting at the bottom of lush green hills, a two story maroon colored barn resting almost in the middle. She's heard about it in passing- heard her father say he was going to "The Barn" too many times to make the connection- but had never stepped foot inside. On her first day, she watches as her mother rolls back the door, heels clacking to the center of space, where an oblivious, young white cow stands snacking on a pile of hay. Her mother runs a gentle hand across its back, leans down and kisses its fur softly, and before the young girl knows it, her mother turns those slender hands into weapons, slicing open the creature’s throat.

The kid breaks down right there.

She learns then, her mother’s words soft and direct in her mind, that she was born to do something greater than herself: to take care of those people who can not take care of themselves, to cut the beast off at the head and save those who need to be saved but do not have the means. So, the next few times they come out to The Barn, she quells her cries and hides her pretty little tears and silent pleas in her back pocket. With a keen eye, she watches as her mother takes her through a new dance each week. There’s a poetry in the way each blade splits through meat, flesh, bone and fur, and she’s a quick study, easily entranced by the power her own hands hold, and eager to learn.

She’s seven then.

Seven years later, she stands fourteen and pale outside of her parents’ office, a neat thing tucked into the dark recesses of the deli’s basement. Spindly legs jut sharply from the bottoms of black denim shorts, falling into well worn black Converse, and a plain pink shirt stretches across a bony, flat-chested frame. She’s thin but strong; her mother’s training now sweet muscle memory beneath her skin. Mr. Turner’s inside the office now. He usually pays her no attention, prefers to foolishly slather his particular brand of overt, verbal nastiness all over her mother. She holds a blade in her clammy palm, tensing and releasing, waiting for her signal. When her father opens the door, he squeezes her shoulder and drops a kiss to the top of her shiny black hair, and then he’s shuffling her in to where Mr. Turner and her mother are waiting. The door clicks behind her.

On a balmy summer night in the middle of July, in a soundproof room and her mother by her side, a young Kira Yukimura learns it takes three separate knives and a box cutter to take down a bear.

  


**Author's Note:**

> The song referenced at the beginning and the chapter title comes from "Sedated" by Mikky Ekko.


End file.
